


Oh jailbird, to be king.

by briadakota



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dream Team SMP Setting (Video Blogging RPF), Blood, Blow Jobs, Character Death, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, DNF, Dom Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Dom/sub Undertones, Dream is an asshole, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff, Gaslighting, Hair-pulling, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, I wrote this very sleep deprived, Love/Hate, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Instability, Poor George can’t catch a break, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prison Sex, Prison arc baby, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, Smut, Spit As Lube, Sub GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Tears, Trauma, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Violence, brief implications of suicide, dreamnotfound, forgive any errors, friends to enemies to lovers but toxic, i think, like seriously he’s a meaniebobeanie, very sparse though, very toxic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29801730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briadakota/pseuds/briadakota
Summary: When you must follow him through the depths of hell to embrace, is he still golden?aka prison sex baby!!!!!
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 255





	Oh jailbird, to be king.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Before you get into this, I would like to say that this is not a happy story. If any of the tags make you uncomfortable I would recommend you sit this one out. <3
> 
> Also ‘George’ kept getting corrected to ‘Geogre’ , i think I took care of them but if you see it pls ignore LMAO

Sunlight kisses pale skin and casts dancing shadows on peculiar landmarks.

It’s a strange thing for the sun to want to do, to rise over a land like this. A land stained to its soil infested bones with political turmoil, hate, and war. A land hosting the rotting corpses of the beloved and the banished. A land with those souls, so imprudent and impetuous, wandering within its tombs. And yet lush hills roll, gentle winds tease and birds sing an unfamiliar song. So the sun rises each day, to watch and wonder, a spectator of this grand show. 

George doesn’t like the sunlight. He doesn’t like how it kisses in translucent gold, little embers of maple dappling everything its liquid touch falls on, he doesn’t like it at all. It reminds him of a friend, a person he can’t stand to think about, a tragic soul so lost, but not buried, not yet. At least, that’s the prayer George has been hanging onto.

He squints and turns away from honeyed brilliance, not used to being subjected to it. 

George made a habit of staying inside, where it’s quiet and he could do things and touch things, keep himself busy and his mind lazy, taking regrettable pride in how he learnt to trick his heart into feeling safe. Then he grew restless, running out of things to do and touch, and the clouds of anxiety began to draw near, threatening to huff and puff and blow his brittle heart down. So he slept. He slept as long as he could stand and drowned in the unconscious, where he didn’t have to feel or think, it was a gloomy paradise and George drank from it like it was the holy grail. 

And then the incident happened, and George could sleep no longer. His black and white euphoria was bedevilled by heavy chains and iron bars, orange jumpsuits and dingy rooms. His golden boy chased him from paradise. 

George spent a lot of time thinking about that boy, his best friend. Sometimes he was cruel; searching hungrily through chocolate eyes, undressing George with his, only to clap him on the back later and call him his ‘bro’. George never understood the way his silly heart ached, but he smiled anyway. Always smiling for his best friend.

It was Dream, George, and Sapnap. The golden trio, the best friends. George and Sapnap would bicker and huff, and Dream would laugh and tease.

“Come on you two, kiss and make up.” 

He was their glue, their golden boy.

_One day, George, the sun will set, and my time here will rise with you as the new king._

And a filthy fucking liar.

George thought that perhaps, if he kept running, he could pretend that Dream didn’t exist, pretend that he never laughed so pretty and warm, pretend that he never ran his big hands down George’s little body. It was a pitiful attempt to deny the fact that he had lost a piece of himself the day he lost Dream.

Nonetheless, he decided that this eased the excruciating heartache, even if the lifeless echoes of his precious golden boy were chasing him further into his delusions. But it was okay, because it made him numb, made him oblivious and deaf to the distant reverberations of war, it was okay, he was _okay._ Everything was good and perfect and made of fine china. 

And then Sapnap had stumbled through the door of his little wooden house, black hair stuck to his clammy forehead, blue eyes utterly drained of mischief, face ashen, and George’s fine china; so meticulously painted with orchids, came crashing to the floor.

The raven haired of the two had shoved a small piece of paper into George’s open hands, it was crumpled and ripped at one edge.

_George,_

_do you have time to stop by?_

_miss you._

For a moment, the world slowed, and George could hear the sun breathing, waiting, watching. 

He hadn’t seen Dream in what felt like eons, the last encounter had been too much to bear.

He had stood before him as a king hanging from golden strings, crown in his hands and tears in his eyes.

_Just tell me you love me, George!_

“Just tell me you hate me, Dream.”

There had been no gold in his golden boy’s eyes, and he had taken the crown in silence.

George wanted to feel anger, wanted to yell and scoff at the sheer fucking _audacity_ of this stupid letter, but his anger never came. Instead, a deep, aching sense of longing clawed its way up through his neglected heart and settled in his bones, forcing a small, choked sob from his throat. At that, Sapnap pulled him into a cautious embrace, lacking the strength he was so often characterised by, and the two stood in fragile silence, it felt like home. Almost.

“He wouldn’t- speak to me.” Sapnap mumbled, face still buried in the baby blue fabric of George’s hoodie. His voice wavered, it sounded like someone was driving a knife through his heart.

George very rarely experienced his old friend’s presence, and when he did, he suffered a whiplash so severe that his carefully stitched heart fell to pitiful pieces. Sapnap was a mere hollow of the nonchalant, mischievous little pest he used to be with such pride. He looked worn and old, the results of having suffered Dream’s cruelty in obstinate silence. George couldn’t remember the last time a smile graced his lips.

“He wouldn’t speak to me.” He said again, finally letting go of George. “Just wrote, in a book. And he wanted me to give you- that.” He gestured to the scrap of paper in George’s hand. 

An uncomfortable silence filled the little room.

George cleared his throat, dry and itchy.

“Th-thank you, Sapnap.” 

Before Sapnap had left, his eyes had been flitting, stormy and troubled, but he never spoke, and George never thought to ask.

And now George stands squinting in the grating sunlight. His left hand balled around that godforsaken letter, grip so vice-like that the ink turns blotchy. He doesn’t _want_ to be out here, he was so perfectly fine; painting his orchids in secluded silence. He had planned to rebuild his gloomy paradise and lock himself away again, so he didn’t have to face the land, the sun, the golden.

And yet, here he is. Because of Dream, for his golden boy. Again.

The oak of the ‘prime path’ creaks under George’s feet, he thinks it’s a peculiar name, something adorned with childlike innocence in a land so wicked. It’s disturbing. He doesn’t like it.

Ahead of him, crouched and tending to a rather pitiful farm is a boy with sallow blonde hair. George hasn’t seen this boy for a very long time, but he knows, and he remembers. His mind throws him back to the time where he held a sword to the boy’s throat. The boy had been a child.

He hasn’t noticed George’s presence and the man begins to tremble. Why is he here? Why did he think the boy would want to see him?

_Selfish selfish selfish_

He shouldn’t have come here, he should never have strayed so far, he should turn back and run, he should shut himself away in shadowy euphoria, he should t-

“George?” 

The boy is now standing, staring. If George sifts through his disjointed mind carefully enough, he can vaguely remember a time where the boy would shout and laugh and call him ‘gogy’. But that was in another life, another land.

“Tommy.”

The boy comes closer, his distrust blatantly obvious in the form of a diamond hilted sword clutched in his right hand. Tommy is tall, taller than George, the man takes a step back. He doesn’t remember that chalky face, those dull eyes, that unsmiling mouth, he doesn’t remember, but he _knows._

This is the boy who had been hated and outcast by a nation, the boy who had been plagued by demons and left in the rain, the boy who had watched his childhood burn to ashes and rubble. The boy who had been only a child.

And it’s evident, it’s so horrifically evident in the way he hardly speaks, hardly blinks, clutches his belongings far tighter than need be. There is no blue in his eyes or grin on his lips. The boy is only a child.

The whiplash hurts. George doesn’t know what to do, there’s an apology on his tongue but it won’t go past his lips, he can’t speak it into existence. How could he? Tommy has trekked through hellish universes of torment, alone and afraid, calling out to those who turned their backs. How could George expect a trivial apology to save the day? Tommy is still staring, panic creeps into his veins, a shivering rat looking for morsels. 

_How could you be so stupid?_

He stumbles forward, not knowing what he’s doing or where he’s going, tripping over his own feet until he collides with Tommy. There is lightning, and George’s fingertips brush the surfaces of hatred, terror, death and anguish. He _knows_ and it’s so bitterly tragic. 

For a moment, George thinks he’s made a horrible mistake, and he braces himself for the sword in his back and the diamonds in his flesh, jumping about four feet in the air when cautious hands land instead. George doesn’t need to apologise, Tommy can feel it in the sun.

“It’s alright, big man. It was never your fault.” His voice is impassive, but his words spill care and forgiveness.

George’s heart breaks some more. Tommy; the boy who forgives those who leave scars on his soul.

The two stay like that for a while, silent apologies and quiet forgiveness in the air. A passerby may have mistaken them for brothers. 

When they finally part, Tommy’s eyes fall to the paper scrunched up in George’s unsteady hand. He isn’t unwise, he knows why George is suffering the sunlight.

“It’ll be fine, gogs, do what Sam says and you’ll be fine. He’s a good guy, he is.” 

The nickname delivers a small sliver of reassurance to George’s fragmented heart. He mumbles a final apology and a small _thank you_ , _Tommy_.

“Oh, and George?” George turns, he sees Sapnap in the boy’s stormy and troubled eyes. There’s a silence, and an expression on Tommy’s face that George doesn’t recognise, something between frustration and fear, he can’t pinpoint it.

“Be careful, big man.”

George opens his mouth to question, but Tommy has turned around and is squatting at the farm again, their conversation is over. He closes his mouth, knowing better than to push.

George walks the prime path alone, suddenly very afraid, wishing he’d held onto Tommy just a little bit longer. He passes strange buildings, unable to recall their significance. The sun seems to grow restless, pulling strings of tension across the land. George wrings his hands, desperately trying to keep the shivering rats from festering in his veins, of course, to no avail. 

_Do what Sam says and you’ll be fine._

Sam. 

George remembers. 

It’s a fleeting memory, a butterfly ghosting the crevices of his mind that he can’t quite catch, but he recalls the pattern of its wings. He remembers a reluctant friendship and a kind face. 

What happened?

But the butterfly is gone, fluttering into another lifetime.

George allows himself to take careful comfort in being able to see a familiar face, using it to distract himself from the sinking dread that has begun gnawing at his patchwork heart. And then the prison comes into view, and the dread materialises; a vast, looming building that towers above the clouds, reaching for lightning, seeming to spiral and expand like it’s a living entity. Its walls are made of fragments of midnight, bound by torment and shadows, cosmic grids of iron nestled between. On either side of the prison there are towers; giant watchdogs scowling down at George with bared teeth. The top of the prison looks jagged, almost uneven, George squints until his eyes swim, the sun plays on his delusions and he digs crescent moons into his palms.

_Sam will be here._

He takes a step forward and off the prime path, making his way towards the smaller building in front of the prison. Time slows with each step, every cell in his body is on fire, burning for the sensation of safety. The sun watches him, giving its blessings and its curses, but refusing to shine on the midnight.

George stands at the entrance of the building, drawing in ragged breaths and clutching his precious note. He wonders what Dream would say, if he saw him like this; perhaps he’d sneer and call him pathetic, or perhaps he’d soften and scoop him up in his arms. He entertains the thought for a while, wondering how his golden boy turned into a jailbird, wondering if he would still smile and laugh rays of sunshine. Another butterfly dances across his mind, only this time he catches it, and its wings are darker than coal. He remembers Sapnap’s wavering voice; what if his golden boy won’t even speak to him? His eyes sting and his hands, with that gold woven letter still clutched so pathetically within them, begin to tremble once more. Terror snakes her hands around his throat, he’ll know soon enough.

The inside of the building is dark and empty, save for a wall of purple particles that dance and intertwine, washing the area with a gloomy violet. The pale quartz wall behind it is damaged and George runs slender fingers over its sharp edges, surprised that Sam would let it fall into such disarray. Has it really been that long?

He smooths out the paper as best he can, taking great care as to not let his shaking hands rip it, and stares one last time. 

_George,_

_do you have time to stop by?_

_miss you._

He rubs his eyes, blinks a few times and stares again. The words haven’t danced, he’s not crazy, Dream wants to see him, his golden boy asked for him, he’s not crazy. He watches purple soak his hands as he prepares his poor heart to tear again, not sure how well he’ll handle witnessing his best friend caged like an animal. The image makes his lips quiver and in a moment of madness, he considers attempting to strike a deal with Sam, but a butterfly reminds him of Tommy’s colourless eyes and Sapnap’s small voice.

His golden boy is a jailbird.

Perhaps.

George balls the note up once more, presses his lips into a thin line, and steps into the purple hues, screwing his eyes shut as his head spins. 

A familiar ring echoing through his skull prompts him to open his eyes, and time freezes. The sun holds its breath. George can’t move.

A corridor of midnight twists out from his feet, pillars of marble stretch to the ceilings and lanterns illuminate the floor, but George doesn’t notice it, he staggers out of the purple, eyes unfocused and breath growing shallow.

There are gaping holes in the walls.

_Do what Sam says and you’ll be fine._

“Sam?”

There are pillars reduced to debris.

_He’s a good guy, he is._

_“Sam!”_

Silence answers George, a smile adorning her blood red lips.

He drags his feet down the hall, to the lectern, dread twists his heart until it’s at bursting point. There’s a book perched on the slanted wooden top, pages are torn out in chunks and the thick mahogany leather of the front cover is jagged; having been torn or sliced.

“Sam?” George asks again, his voice nothing above a whisper as his heart hammers against his ribs.

There’s a ring of midnight brick behind the lectern. Slick crimson coats a corner like a collage of rose petals. George stumbles back, jerking himself away from the lectern. Horror rises in his throat and he can’t breathe. 

Oh golden boy, what have you done?

It’s horrible, it’s awful, he should run or scream or cry, but he wants to make sure. Lungs burning from caging air for so long, George peers over the brick. 

Sam’s body lies in a crumpled heap, slumped against the wall. His sage hair is tinged with faint scarlet and his golden armour is slashed, the pale green cape underneath permeated with red. The black gas mask that covers half of the man’s face is littered with punctures, some ooze crimson. The red on black reminds George of a flag, a butterfly he can’t quite reach. 

That red, it’s so red. Red on Sam’s body, red on the floor, red on George’s hands, red on his golden boy. Red scrawls the corners of his vision as he meets Sam’s glassy, soulless eyes, beads in a doll’s pallid, bloodied face. He catches his own doe eyes staring back at him, accusing and unforgiving. Golden.

The room spins, George lurches away from Sam, away from himself, staggering across the floor, it’s flooded with vermilion and then it’s inky again, he gags, tripping over his feet and crashing to the icy midnight, kicking and thrashing, trying to run and hide and get away, shadows paint the walls and the ceiling caves in, there’s blood on his palms and hands around his throat. Death hangs in the air, dancing with her beloved silence.

By the time George’s back hits the wall, there’s salt and gold flowing down his cheeks. He scoops up his limbs and holds himself close, body convulsing, suffocating in the madness, crying out for his golden boy. He stays there for what feels like lifetimes, lashes dewy, trying desperately to tear apart the butterflies who hold Sam’s lifeless eyes.

_Do what Sam says and you’ll be fine._

George wants to be sick.

With pale fingers he unfolds the note, hands wracked with tremors as he reads the smudged ink hundreds of times over.

_miss you._

Pure, untouched anger coils in George’s stomach, turning to primitive rage as it filters through his body like a plague. He gets to his feet, chest heaving and eyes still spilling gold. 

_everything the light touches is our kingdom._

George thinks about that day, about the way the sun tousled with Dream’s hair and made it glow a lazy golden. His eyes had sparkled, so warm and so green and so full of love. 

It had been our kingdom.

George reaches for the butterfly with the pretty green wings and tears it to shreds, watching its pieces fall, hands full of gold. The rage bubbles in his throat; Dream had been his laughter, his home, his arms to fall into and his space to confide in, his _best friend._ But what is a golden boy when he runs from the gates of heaven? 

The rage spills, fire and lightning.

“You rat bastard!” George shrieks at the top of his lungs, pounding his fists against the wall and not caring for the bruises sure to blossom. “You selfish fucking piece of _shit!_ You were my best friend, _our_ best friend! You meant absolutely fucking _everything_ to us! You’re a psychopath! Do you hear me? You’re a fucking _psychopath!”_

_I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you!_

He continues screeching his mantra until his lungs fill with smoke and his voice breaks. The rage is still white hot as he rips the note into tiny pieces, the fragments of paper and soul fall at his feet and his chest heaves, muddy eyes dart to the bloodstained ring of midnight. George wanders forward, still unsteady in stance, and crouches at Sam’s body. He stares for a while, teeth gnawing on lips and eyes scattered with little red lines, he half expects the man to sit up and laugh, say it was all a stupid joke. Dust crumbles from ruined pillars and Sam lies picture perfect. 

George swallows hope and reaches forward, closing vacant eyes with two fingers, being as gentle as his trembling hands will allow him. Sam looks peaceful now, like he might yawn and stretch from some long slumber. 

Resting in a bloodied, open palm is a purple blade. Deep and rich like royalty, stained with the blood of the golden. George’s hand closes around the hilt, he hesitates, red returning to his vision, he pictures Dream on the hilltop again; face so pretty and gentle, sunlight so warm and forgiving. 

But the sky is red and the rain is acid. Golden boy’s should flinch under such droplets.

He takes the sword, mumbling a glass promise pressed with flowers, breathed into existence to be shattered, just like his silly little heart.

With a sword in his hand and a haze in his mind, George clambers through gloomy tunnels, illuminated only by the embers of lost light wandering the vault. Sometimes there are splatters of crimson, and George’s delusional mind screams death, but he never happens upon it. The tunnels are ragged and uneven, leading to dead ends and sheer drops, sometimes the midnight will creak and groan and a ceiling or two will slip, never failing to shake George to his core. Every so often, he stops and stares, wondering if he’s being absolutely fucking ridiculous. If Dream was of sane mind he would have been out of here as soon as the walls fell, but then again, sanity was never really something that Dream seemed to be able to grasp, he painted the most beautiful gardens, yet he always let his roses wither.

Dense, hot air hits George like a slap in the face and he chokes, amber light pools through a cavern to his left, dappling the midnight. He peers through, greeted by a vast room of brick and magma, the red hot liquid rolls down the walls and brimstone hangs in the air. George wrinkles his nose, focusing on the smell to distract himself from the golden ache throbbing in his bones and mind and soul. He tightens his grip on Sam’s sword, vaguely aware of his bloodied knuckles, broken skin stretching taught over prominent bones. He’s here.

Elevated above the pool of lava there’s a black box, the lake of red underneath it writhes, like it’s trying to get away. With nausea boiling in every vein, George steps onto the cobbled path that twists and curls out from his feet, it’s surface too smooth and too unscathed to belong. It’s an invite and a love letter, a challenge and a death threat. The seething magma looks warm and safe, safer than what resides in the box, George considers it. The beckoning luminosity is warm on pale skin and George craves its touch, craves its fire to drown his lungs and blind his judgement, he could create a euphoria down there, a new set of fine china and orchids. But there’s a soul he needs to set free first.

Viridescence and mahogany. A tale as old as time. An essence that kissed the earth as god sighed over her celestial garden of creation. So where was god now that her kings adorn nooses? Where was she now that her angels bay for blood? Perhaps she had grown tired of red roses and golden skies, perhaps she had let this land fall to tend to another garden. Death swims in viridescence, and George knows no prayer.

Dream slouches against the back wall of the slick obsidian, one foot propped up behind him. Nonchalant as if it were a mere inconvenience to be a fallen angel. An orange jumpsuit covers his frame, though it is dull with wear and splattered with fresh scarlet. His hair is longer, cascading to his eyes in silken waves. He looks good. Of course he does, what else could be expected of such a narcissist? A lazy smile drips honey from his lips, dragging eyes of emerald smoke over every planck length of George. It’s so blatant, so drawled and deliberate, and it breeds that white hot rage. Geogre wants to shove his sword down Dream’s throat. Wants to hear him choke and splutter. Wants to see him beg for his life.

“I missed you.”

It’s a loving phrase, one that should evoke smiles and giggles and blushy faces, but it’s said with a bitter tinge and George’s lips curl into a sneer. Unchecked hatred boils in his gut and he wants to see golden spill.

“I hate you.” And it’s the glass truth.

Dream’s derision is soft, he scoffs with laced amusement.

“Nice to see you too.” He folds his arms across his chest, eyeing the sword clutched childishly in George’s hand. “And what are you going to do with that?”

“I’m going to kill you.” George answers prosaically.

At this, Dream bursts into genuine, wholehearted laughter, doubling over and clutching at his knees for support. George’s porcelain anger falters for precious seconds, the golden laughter soothes his heartache and chases the tensions from his soul. He teeters on the tightrope of heaven and hell.

“Oh, George,” he gasps for breath, eyes shiny and reaching for George to steady himself.

George snaps. Fire courses through his veins and he smacks Dream’s hand away, nails catching on skin. 

“Don’t _fucking_ touch me!”

The words ignite bonfires and white hot fury, poison that sparks electricity through the simmering magma.

The laughter is cut short and Dream straightens, silence whispers her warnings as he stands over George. He’s taller, leaner, less golden than George remembers. His smoky eyes bear no trace of the earlier amusement and he frowns.

“What the hell’s crawled up your ass, George? I made it easy for you to come and see me, why are you being a little bitch?”

George’s mouth falls open. 

“o-oh my _god_ Dream…” He trails off into a bitter laugh. “You don’t even fucking realise, do you?” He shakes his head, laughter soft and empty. “Holy shit… you’re- you’re a monster. You know that, right?”

“You’re the one who took a dead man’s sword.”

George flinches, he suddenly remembers why he didn’t run the second he found Sam’s body. He lunges forward, losing himself to madness and blood, seeking for royal metal to meet flesh, seeking to silence, seeking to rid this godforsaken land of its curse, hatred spills from him like misted ice.

Dream lets himself fall to the right, the blade brushing past his ear and sinking into fire and brimstone ridden air. George stumbles, sword heavy and feet clumsy.

_Fuck._

A large hand snatches a thin wrist, thumb pressing down on that tender spot of flesh between frail bones until George cries out and tries to twist away, sword clattering to the floor. Dream raises his eyebrows, though the action lacks amusement.

“That was embarrassing, George.” He presses harder into the skin until it’s almost translucent, watching with sick satisfaction as sharp bones threaten to protrude. “Though I suppose you’ve always been pathetic with a sword. Do you remember, George? Do you remember those nights where I’d teach you how to fight?” He yanks George closer, almost pulling the poor man over. “You were so desperate to be good at something, so desperate to be useful. And you could never get the hang of it.” 

Dream’s face is so close, George can see every perfect detail, and if he didn’t want to gauge his eyes out, he’d marvel at his ability to stay so pristine. His green eyes swim with ash and blood and something else, something halfway towards a yearn for torn skin and broken bones. George struggles and writhes, suddenly terrified of the creature before him, the furthest thing from golden.

“Let go, you’re _hurting_ me you- you prick!” His complaint melts into a plea, tears brimming in his eyes.

Dream examines his face, digging through his soul and dissecting his heart, like he doesn’t understand the language George is speaking. He presses harder still, bones brittle under his grasp.

“You never came to visit me.” He said slowly, his face a picture of carefully constructed hurt. “I had to _ask_ you to come and visit me. Imagine that, George? I had to ask my best friend to come and visit me because he was too fucking _selfish_ and _lazy_ to consider my feelings.” His words were weaponised, stinging arrows left quivering in George’s flesh. 

George is on his knees now, convulsing with the agony flowing through his veins. 

“ _Please-”_

He burns with shame, hanging his head to avoid Dream’s malicious smirk, mouth full of razor blades. 

“You’re fucking pathetic.” He _finally_ lets go of George’s wrist, triumph in his voice as he surveys the snivelling mess at his feet. “Get up. Don’t be such a bitch.”

Rough hands yank George to his feet and his head spins. Dream towers above him, eyes hungry, lips curled into a sneer. Hostile and animalistic. George turns his head away, gazing mindlessly at the discarded blade, whiplash searing through his skin. He remembers those nights, he remembers jabbing a wooden sword at Dream and missing terribly. Dream was always so much better, so much stronger. But he never once sneered, he always laughed so gently, never unkindly. Taking George’s hand and guiding him through the steps. Anger and loss meet to create something new, and it rips at George’s soul. He aches with the dying breath of a universe, and burns with the fury of a new world.

“Are you seriously crying _again_? Jesus christ, George, you wou-”

A sickening crunch reverberates around the empty room, save for a white bed, a golden clock and a wooden bookshelf crammed in the corner. The sound crashes against the glittering obsidian walls and Dream staggers back, eyes wide and hand clutching at his face. When he takes it away, his fingers are covered in crimson and his mouth drips with saliva and blood. He stares at his hands for a while, stretching the red strings between his fingers, and then his eyes travel up George’s body. Blackened whiskey coils in green orbs, looking to corrupt. He looks like an animal, ravenous and starving, canines sharp and splattered with red. But George doesn’t care, his heartbeat pounds in his ears and boiling, seething fury made of gold wracks his body with waves of nausea. He stalks forward, twitching with the intake of furious breaths, fists balled and trembling.

His bravery is a brittle thing of foolishness, the half witted justice of the deck. He raises his fist again, hoping for fragments of bone this time, but his actions are as malleable as his glass heart. Indeed, pathetic.

Dream’s hand wraps around George’s throat, shoving him against the wall so brutally that his head collides with the glassy obsidian. His brain rattles in his skull and his eyes flutter, silly and pretty like a doll. Those eyes are wide and smoky; smoky with hate and fear and something else, fire and velvet are hot on his tongue. Something shifts in the atmosphere, the air feels heavier. Dream is too close.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_.” He whispers against George’s ear, mouth twisted in a snarl of red oil. George sees doomsday in those cruel, luminous eyes, torment and bloodshed, kings and queens hanging from their golden strings. Dream squeezes around his esophagus, fingers cold and hard, nails drawing blood from milky skin. Panic flares in every vein of George’s body, seeping into his bones and flowing through his blood. He can’t breathe, his eyes grow bloodshot and he thrashes like he’s been doused in gasoline and set alight. A choked scream filters through his lips and Dream’s eyes dart to the origin of the sound, For a fleeting second, his eyes soften, he relaxes his grip just enough to let George cough and drink from the air like he’s never had the chance to breathe in his twenty four years of life. Dream steps closer, rummaging through his eyes and dragging a finger down the side of his neck. It’s a soothing action, perhaps unconscious. George should be scared, he should be absolutely terrified because _jesus fucking christ_ Dream is going to kill him, but George is made of paper hearts and glass shards, he’s a fool, and Dream knows it.

A small, mournful noise, something of a sigh, soft and honeyed, escapes George’s lips, and his entire body burns with white hot shame. Dream’s eyes grow wide, as does the bloodied smile plastered on his face. George wants to slice his mouth open.

“Get- get off m-me!” He manages to spit out, eyes still swimming with liquid fire and nails scratching red hot lines down Dream’s arms, kicking and writhing in his vice-like grip. Dream steps closer, pressing George further up the wall and pushing his knee against his crotch, so painfully softly, the closest thing to a display of care he’d demonstrated as yet. George bites at his trembling lips and his dark eyebrows knot into a furious scowl, barely stifling a whine. 

“I don’t think you want that, do you George?” Dream’s voice drips velvet like the slow magma beyond the box, it’s not a question, he doesn’t need to ask, but he wants to hear, he wants to pick apart his doll. 

When George stays silent, Dream frowns with the same anger. He presses against George harder, rubbing in gentle circles and squeezes his throat until pale skin is pulled like a sheet of paper over bone, earning him a rather wonderful display of gagging, fluttering eyes and rolling hips.

“Dr-eam-'' He gasps out, fingers scrambling for sanity, and it’s a beautiful, broken noise. George is so utterly humiliated to be pressed up like this, but he would be lying in the face of the universe if he were to say he hadn’t been craving this very scene. 

A butterfly flutters across his mind, her wings are adorned with lambent red. He remembers all the times Dream’s touch burnt, and all the times after that when his own hand wasn’t enough. He flushes and tears well up in his eyes. 

Dream sighs and loosens his grip on George’s throat to thumb at his tears, though his nails clip the rims of his eyes.

“I know you craved me.” He trails his hand down the smaller man’s face, for a moment his eyes are unsure and filmy, passable as mirroring George’s. “I liked it. I liked hurting you.” 

He strokes the golden blossoms that bruise George’s neck. “Why don’t you ever fight back?”

George shakes his head, recoiling from hands too gentle to be the bearer of truths. Hurt claws at his heart, it rises in his throat and he can’t speak. There’s no humanity or tenderness left in his golden boy. Fresh tears slip down his cheeks.

“Where did you go, Dream?” He whispers melancholically, eyes darting as he searches for his golden boy in the beast that stands before him.

“I've always been here.” Dream’s truth rasps in his throat, hair haloed and golden brown.

It’s a lie that ties threads of gold around George’s neck, but he drinks from Dream anyway, because he hasn’t tasted wine in lifetimes. His mouth tastes like sugar of lead, his teeth pierce plush lips, warm blood spills like fine wine.

“You have no idea,” Dream breathes, pulling George off his mouth and admiring his bloody work, scarlet pooling from his own lips. “how long I’ve waited for this, for you, like this.”

“Dream, I-”

“Every night, I dream of you George. You never leave my _fucking_ head.” His hand snakes around his doll’s throat again, and the doll does not run. “It drives me crazy, _you_ drive me crazy.” He pauses, admiring the crimson dust on George’s cheeks. He presses down where it hurts. “Maybe, if you hadn't left me, like an arrogant little bitch, things would be different.”

“Dream-”

“You ruined me, George. Sometimes, I think you’d look so much prettier if I hurt you. Don’t you think you deserve it?” His voice is vanilla and silk, a gentle drawl that drips from his tongue. If only god could see him now, she’d wish he had never been an angel.

George stares, eyes a perfect picture of terror edged on lust. Dream is truly heaven sent, with that striking jaw and those sharp eyes, there’s something so ethereally _beautiful_ about him, something so feline in the way his eyes narrow and his lips curl, an angel woven from the very fabrics of the universe.

“Let me hurt you, sweetheart.”

Alcohol is poured into gaping wounds, burning and hissing, numbing every unspoken truth. He wants everything, he wants the hurt and the hell and the horror, he wants it all in bone, blood and flesh. The more he can’t breathe, the more he can’t hate. George is pushed from grace, and Dream is there to catch him.

“Please-”

He knows this is a terrible, awful mistake, he knows he’ll hate himself for lifetimes to come; he should be aware of the knife on his tongue, but the wine on his lips is so sweet. Because what are consequences in the face of short lived satisfaction? Human beings, with their glass hearts and porcelain souls, will always choose pleasure over reason. And who could blame them? Pleasure is a temptress, with her lustrous robes of silk entwined with prayers and blood spill, a being that weakened even god herself. Perhaps that’s why she fled her garden.

The hand on his throat grows tighter, and begins forcing him down. The action isn’t kind and nowhere near gentle as Dream digs strong fingers into George’s collarbones. He’s met with slight resistance as panic flares in George, he scowls, still so pretty.

“On your fucking knees, George. Do I really have to spell everything out for you?”

George’s strength falters when large fingers find a particularly soft spot amongst his bones and he collapses, knees greeting obsidian with painful impact. 

Dream looks beautiful, and he looks terrifying. He looks like the killer George knows him to be, the golden boy who snaps necks and shatters ribs, hunts souls and puppeteers governments, all with the grace of an angel, the hands of pleasure and the kiss of death. He lets go of George’s neck and reaches for the discarded purple metal, watching in delight as chocolate eyes widen.

“Dream, what- what’s-” 

“What?” Dream tilts his head to one side, fluffy hair bouncing. “Did you think I’d forget about this?” He jabs a finger at the golden brown bruise spreading across his jaw, and George feels a glow of sick satisfaction. The tip of the blade is placed under his chin and presses into his skin ever so gently, George grits his teeth and forces the writhing panic down, staring up at his golden boy with carefully placed indignance. 

“Open your mouth.”

He does so, uncertainly, and before he can question, Dream spits. George flinches, eyes wide in shock and saliva on his tongue. It’s filthy and disgusting, filthy and delicious, he wants to throw up and he wants it again. Metal presses harder, forcing his mouth to close.

“Swallow.”

And George does, offering a perfect display of obedience; sat there on his knees, a sword to his throat and drinking down Dream like he’s holy water. It’s obscene and shameful, an angel drowning in its own light.

Dream throws down the sword, the sharp clatter of metal on obsidian makes George jump, and crouches in front of the smaller man.

“Good boy.” His voice sets George’s soul alight with all the right words, and all the wrong intentions.

Dream takes his chin in his hand and runs his thumb along creamy, bone china skin. The touch is far too gentle to belong to a being with eyes swimming in cyanide, and it reminds George of a simpler time. He yearns to ask for Dream again, desperate to know where his golden boy dwells. 

“Are you afraid of me, George?”

Silence settles like soft snow and ethylene drips from snake tongues. George’s hands are clasped in his lap like a silent prayer. Defiance simmers in his blood, but the truth is far sweeter. 

“Yes, I- yes. I am, and I- I-” His face burns with the shame of an angel considering the hand of pleasure, George reaches for her open palm. “it feels good.” His voice drops to a whisper, and it’s the repulsive, delicious reality.

Dream’s eyebrows shoot up, genuine surprise evident in his features. He turns away for a second, scoffing to himself and chewing on his already raw lips, there’s something so undeniably human scrawled into his face and George reaches up to chase it.

A whip cracks and George’s skin burns with the aftershock of metal striking porcelain. His eyes are wide and his mouth hangs slack, hand still poised in the air, he knows he must look utterly pathetic, forced into compliance by the angel he aches to love. The sting seeps into his bones, crawling into every crevice of his body, and he shudders, pleasure scalds his tongue and he presses his thighs together.

Dream doesn’t miss the action, he barks a laugh and gets to his feet.

“A little pain slut, huh? What on _earth_ would Sapnap say?” His sentence is careful and deliberate, he anticipates the fire.

White anger returns, and George sees red. He’s suddenly aware of the cold obsidian against his knees and the warm embers kissing his skin, aware of the husk of his golden boy above him. He leaps to his feet, hands flying around Dream’s neck, fingernails digging for blood, remembering each and every glass promise he spoke into silence.

George’s hands are small and feeble, his nails blunt from endless nights of anxiety ridden thoughts, they scratch weakly at already scarred skin. His outburst is a rather pitiful attempt to regain a shred of honour, and Dream loves to see it. With one hand, he claims a fistful of dark chestnut hair, yanking cold and hard, with the other, he forces George’s mouth open and shoves his fingers inside.

George splutters, hands clawing at the offending arm and body falling limp. He thrashes, head forced back at an almost ninety degree angle and mouth struggling to accommodate Dream’s large hand, he gags and retches around ivory fingers, saliva dripping from his mouth and tears splashing against obsidian. He tries to bite down, tries to sink his teeth into digits, but Dream presses hard on his tongue and stuffs his fingers further down his throat. George can’t breathe, can’t think, he stops kicking and scratching and his eyes begin to flutter, the room lurches, darkness and ruin slither up the walls. Dream’s fingers taste like salt and death, he craves it, and his eyes roll back.

“Pretty.” Dream grunts from above him, finally removing his hands from George and letting him stumble back, coughing and gasping and trying to chase his consciousness.

When his head has stopped swimming, George wipes the drool from his chin and stares up at Dream, fire and water meet to dance for what must be the trillionth time.

“Thank you.”

And now it’s Dream’s turn to be left speechless. His eyes rake George’s frame; so small, so brittle, so breakable. Glass and paper. He drags a hand through his tousled hair.

“ _Fuck_ , George.” He grumbles, unbuttoning the top of his jumpsuit and wandering to the bed. It’s plain, and doesn’t dent when Dream flops down on it. George almost feels sorry for him.

Gathering confidence, George steps further into the room, forcing his expression to remain neutral as he watches Dream blatantly undress him with his eyes. The man lolls on the edge of the solid mattress, legs jutted out at different angles and arms splayed out behind him, gazing up at George with curiosity, hunger, and something halfway to regret. To a passerby, George has the upper hand, but within their box, within their mist of death and life, George knows that one wrong move, one slip of his tongue, and blood shall flow.

“I want you to do something for me.” Dream hums, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. 

George doesn’t need to be told, he can see Dream straining against his jumpsuit, but he feels power and dominance in his blood, stood over golden titanium like this. He wants to see creation burn.

“Oh?” Innocence coats his honeyed tongue and he drops to his knees, staring up at gold with lustrous doe eyes. “What would that be?”

Dream narrows his eyes, a warning.

“What do you want me to do, Dream?” He rises up to hover against his lips, slender fingers unbuttoning orange fabric, so slow, so risky.

“George-”

“Say it.”

And creation does burn, just as George had prayed. 

His head is snapped back and he exhales in pleasure and pain, the sensations have entwined to create a silken touch of nothing but cataclysmic gold. Dream is by his ear, jaw sharp, eyes lidded, teeth bared. 

“Cut the attitude, darling, we both know you’re only here to serve as something for me to abuse.” His voice is rough and guttural, clawing up his throat. His lips pull back into a cruel sneer of blackened ice when George lets out a choked sound of surprise, thighs shaking in effort to hold up his suddenly heavy body.

“Suck me off, and then maybe I’ll consider stuffing your useless little hole. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Pretty little slut like you, barging in here with a _sword_ ,” He shakes his head, tutting softly. “I suppose I should teach you some manners.”

George falls further than he’d ever dreamt of during those isolated nights of sorrowful memories. He feels silly and useless, staring stupidly at the man above him. His best friend, his greatest enemy, a boy so golden that he turns acid to sugar, and sugar to acid.

Within seconds, orange fabric is discarded, Dream sits luminous and godlike. George stares for a while, held hostage in the ripple of his muscles and deep scars peppering his tawny canvas. He kneels between Dream’s thighs, feeling small, inferior and subservient, still fully clothed, untouched by pleasure. Dream strokes himself a few times, he’s so _big_ , everything about him is so big, so capable of ruin and despair, a witness to the birth of worlds, and the death of gods.

George opens his mouth, rocking back and forth, aching so desperately for his lungs to burn. He should be ashamed, he should be full of hate and he should fight, every cell in his body screams at him to do so, but George is a pitiful creature, and pleasure knows how to weave his soul with gold.

Salt and velvet lay heavy on his tongue, Dream fills his mouth and George gags, struggling to get used to the filthy sensation of the head pressing against the back of his throat. There is silence for a while, fragile and tender as Dream is still. It should feel obscene, a cock resting heavy in his mouth, but there’s a withered kindness in Dream’s eyes and it’s so warm, silent reminiscence burns in the glassy obsidian. George closes his eyes and lets tears fall, his heart breaks. His soul yearns. His veins are on fire. On his knees, mouth stuffed like the whore he was surely created to be, he prays to be torn from grace, to be used and broken, dragged down to fiery depths by god’s most disastrous, exquisite creation. And Dream, too golden for god to gaze upon, is there to answer brittle prayers.

He slides hands of creation through his whore’s hair, gripping it once he reaches the back of his head, and pushes voluptuous lips flush against his groin. George chokes, the salt and velvet sliding down his throat, raking his nails down lean legs, trying to recoil.

“Sweetheart,” Dream cards his hands through brown hair, hushing him in a tone so sweet it makes George wince. “Don’t fight.” 

George furrows his brows, scowling up at the angel of bitter souls above him, so arrogant, so proud, he wants to kill him, wants to carve his name into his shrivelled heart. He bites down, teeth grazing sensitive skin, and Dream snarls a string of curses. He finds purchase in fistfuls of hair and thrusts, hard and without a hint of mercy. His dick slams against the back of George’s throat and the poor boy wails, sending reverberations of sheer pleasure through Dream’s veins. 

“Yeah, _fuck,_ keep crying for me baby, maybe I’ll decide to give a fuck.” He grins blood and wine, dragging his tongue over razored teeth that gleam just slightly too white.

George sobs, body writhing as he retches over and over, his jaw aches and silver drool streams down his chin. He can’t take it, he wants it to stop. 

_please please please no more please_

He feels his eyes grow heavy and his heartbeat grow dull. 

Dream pulls out of his mouth with a lewd pop, letting go of his hair and watching him fall forward. Before his face can collide with midnight glass, he yanks his head back up, devouring his mouth and tearing his lips. George can do all but moan and cry into the kiss, nothing but a toy in Dream’s hands. He always was, always will be. Ever since that day on the hilltop, he had sipped from the holy grail of liquid amatoxins, hand picked by his golden boy.

Viridescence and mahogany burn against one another, George’s lips drip with saliva and blood, Dream’s eyes drown with death and decay. There’s hate rising in the air, vipers on their skin.

George’s face contorts into something of forgotten hopes scrawled into a marble tabloid, gasoline soaking the carved words. 

“I should have fucking killed you.” 

For a moment, Dream looks almost hurt by his words. It’s a strange emotion to grace his face, but then it twists into something darker, angrier, hungrier. His lips pull back into a snarl and his teeth glint in the dull glow of magma whispers. He tears open the strings binding George’s blue sweater and throws it across the room, chest heaving with furious breaths and grabbing a fistful of hair, forcing him against the wall face first.

“Yeah, you should’ve.”

George stands there, the side of his face pressed against inky glass, and it’s almost tranquil. The surface tends to his burning flesh with soothing hands, and the air peppers soft kisses of warmth against his exposed back. He’s so lost in his haze that he doesn’t notice Dream yanking his faded jeans down until he lifts his feet to pull them over his ankles, and suddenly he’s jolted out of his head.

He feels heat coil up in his stomach and his heart hammers in his chest. He’s unable to distinguish fear from lust any longer, but what does it matter? They both lead to the same calamitous being; pleasure has every soul wrapped around her finger, and she adores the devastation they create.

George knows there will be pain, he knows there will be tears, because Dream is angry, and when a creature so beautiful is so angry, destruction is sure to follow. Though George, as porcelain and china as he is, couldn’t care less. There have been too many nights of numb lucidity, or perhaps they were days, he doesn’t remember the difference. He wants to feel, _needs_ to feel, and time trickles on, so he bites.

“H-Hurry the _fuck_ up Dream, what’s your problem?” He hisses through gritted teeth, turning his head under loosened grip to observe Dream’s hands lathering his cock in saliva, teeth gnawing at his bloodied lips, confliction knotted into his brows. It’s a moment of curious weakness, but before George can latch onto it, the contemplation melts and Dream’s face hardens. The promise of ruin and salt becomes known.

Dream presses into George without warmth, and the world begins to crumble. He pulls pale hips flush to his pelvis and hangs onto George’s cries of pain, cries of pleasure. 

“It’s- it’s t’ big-! _Dream!”_ He whines pathetically, eyes rolling in his skull and thighs shaking in burning, lovely agony.

“You asked for this, George,” Dream takes thin wrists in one hand and pulls his arms back, arching George painfully and pushing his hips deeper. “So you’ll fucking take it.”

He snaps his hips, finding a harsh rhythm, pounding against that sweet spot of honey, and George comes undone around him, just like pretty things should. He sobs tears of gold, tears of silver, crying out for shreds of clemency, rocking back and forth like a little rag doll, but Dream is ivory and he finds no compassion. He digs deeper, pushes harder, seeking to abuse and torment, groaning inside velvet heat.

“More, more more- want- more- want-” George cuts himself off with a long whine, drool slipping down his chin and eyes displaying only white. Pleasure sears his nerves, numbing the pain of the stinging stretch inside him and the burning arch of his back, his jaw falls slack and he moans, trying to push back on Dream, thighs beginning to tremble.

“Look at you,” Dream grunts in disbelief, trailing his hands down the shape of George’s ass and bringing them down with a stinging, obscene smack. George halfway screams, breaking into hysterical sobs. “You just can’t get enough of it, can you? Such a good little cocksleeve, yeah? My filthy little toy.” 

George babbles a string of _thank you thank you thank you_ , tongue lolling out of his mouth, body twitching as he nears his high. He bites down on his bruised lips as a muffled whine bounces around his throat.

“S-Stop! Can’t- _ah!-_ no more- more, _can’t!”_

“You can, and you will.” Dream growls in his ear, bending his spine even further as he covers George’s body and takes hold of his chin. He spits in the poor whore’s mouth, watching as it slips down his throat.

George clenches around his cock and Dream smirks, open mouthed and tongue rolling over his lips. He knows George is close, knows the pathetic tremble of tiny thighs, but he doesn’t ease his brutal pace, thrusting harder and harder, bringing George’s world down around him with twisted delight.

“Please- please! Please let me cum! _Please_ -!” He’s a whining, snivelling mess and he’s vaguely aware that Dream fucking lives for this, lives for ruining and humiliating and breaking. 

The kiss to his shoulder blade is too sweet to ring true, and the words that follow even more so.

“Cum for me darling, show me how good you are.” His voice is a harsh rasp, but his words are red wine.

George doesn’t need to be told twice, white ribbons spark behind his eyes and pleasure scalds under his skin, he convulses, and then falls limp.

But Dream is not done, and pleasure still dances. He pounds harder than he had done previously, not paying much attention to if he was tearing the smaller man’s hole, reaching round to take George’s oversensitive cock in his hands. He thumbs over the head, pressing hard, and George writhes, tears spilling and raw throat aching.

“No no no no no, _please no,_ I can’t- can’t cum- again, please-” His body wracks with sobs, abused and overstimulated, just as he was destined to be.

“Tell me, sweetheart, tell me how much of a whore you are.” Dream purrs, edging him close to another agonising high.

George can’t speak, his heart beats in his throat and his eyes burn. 

Dream scowls and snaps his hips harder, heat coiling in his own stomach.

“ _Tell me_ , George, use your words, dumb bitch.” 

“M’ a whore! m’ a whore, yours! _ah-_ yours-” He manages to slur out, coming for the second time with a weak sob. 

“Good boy, so good for me, you’re so good for me.”

Dream finally welcomes mercy and lets himself go, filling George’s used hole and pulling it apart to watch the ribbons spill, a note of the painful pleasure he caused today. 

The smaller boy slips out of Dream’s grasp and slides down the glass obsidian, covered in blood, bruises and cum, limp and lifeless for aching moments. He recoils at the intrusion of a cloth on his thighs, staring up at Dream with battered pride.

“Let me.” Dream murmurs, and there’s something frail in his voice, he wipes blood and corruption from George's small body, as gentle as the flowers they used to exchange. He takes a feeble wrist in his hand, thumbing over the bones and careful to avoid bloodied bruises. The care he shows hurts.

“Why did you let me hurt you?” He whispers, green eyes glisten. Unmistakable weakness swims, and George smiles, lopsided and pained. 

“You asked.” 

Dream looks away, rolling lava glowing in his eyes.

“Can you stand?” He asks tentatively. He’s so different from the creature just moments ago, so gentle and worried. 

George hums lightly, shaking his head and wincing as Dream scoops up his useless limbs, unable to ignore the blood staining his hands. He’s carried to the bed and propped up against Dream’s chest. Fingers comb through his hair and he sighs, letting his eyes flutter shut. This wasn’t supposed to happen, Dream was supposed to be dead.

“Come home.” George mumbles against his chest, and he feels Dream flinch. The gold is raw, and it flows through open wounds. This feels like lifetimes ago, times spent atop the hill, platonic embraces and sweet flowers. “You’re so golden.” His voice breaks but Dream remains in silence, holding George’s head close to his chest. 

George can feel his heartbeat, it’s patchwork, just like his.

“Hate me.” Dream breathes into his hair, tears wetting the tousled brown. 

George shakes his head, peppering kisses to his scarred chest, feeling how Dream aches and craves, dark possessiveness warring with silver fear.

“ _Please._ ” His voice cracks with an anguish George has never heard before, he shuts his eyes tighter.

“I love you.”

He hears Dream’s heart shatter, his scarred, porcelain heart. Perhaps they were the lovers of the deck, made to always hate with an aching adoration. 

“It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve always been here.” And it’s the golden truth, spoken into painful existence as he lies on his golden boy’s chest, spilling love and forgiveness. 

_I can fix you._

“You can be king, George.” His voice quivers, the words are foreign and strange, he holds George so close, too close.

Something is wrong.

George tries to sit up, tries to pull away to look in Dream’s eyes, to ask questions, but Dream holds him tight, like he’s trying to fuse their bodies together. Raw and porcelain, just how gods fall.

“Be king for me, up there.” 

A thousand miles away, a butterfly flutters her wings.

“What?”

Sweet whiskey blossoms in George’s veins, crawling through his bones and his flesh, filling his brain with noxious love. Cherry blossoms fall from branches, pretty as they lie decaying. Whiskey turns to dull metal, aching in his bones. He lifts his head, the room distorts and the walls bend, Dream’s face glistens with tears. George thinks that if anyone should cry gold, it should be the angel below him, crafted and outcast by the hands of god. A finished symphony fills the room, a fulfilled prophecy, a golden chapter.

Crimson flows over skin of bone, purple metal kisses flesh of innocence. Ink sighs in George’s vision and flowers bloom in his heart of shattered glass. A smile graces his lips, though bloodied and torn, they breathe the soul of an angel.

“I love you. So golden.” His words are slurred and he tastes his own tears, but he has never meant anything more in his life. The dying whisper of a fire that once roared bows its head and burns to smoke. Sunlight kisses flowers born in glass.

Dream cradles death in his arms, watching a sunlit soul leave vacuous eyes, golden acceptance hangs in George’s smile until he’s gone. Dream’s heart cracks and he strains to keep his fine china of orchids intact, praying to meet somewhere, someplace, in another life.

He presses a kiss to soulless lips.

_It took me a long time to realise how important attachment was. But when I did… I cut my attachment. I lost my friends, lost my pets, lost everything I cared about._

_I cut everything._

_For power._

“I am not golden.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi lovelies! This was a little long, so thank you if you made it this far!
> 
> As I’m sure you noticed, George’s feelings and attitude towards Dream change constantly; this is intentional. His mind is unstable and irrational, creating attitudes that are not entirely accurate compared with his truer feelings. (Yes, this could be applied to the acceptance of his own death.)
> 
> I also didn’t go into detail with Dream’s perspective on things. This is because there are different possibilities as to why he does the things he does, and I wanted to leave it slightly open to interpretation. 
> 
> Again, I apologise if there are any errors, I currently have exams so this was a little more rushed than I would’ve liked it to be, thank you for reading! :)


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